


Silver Foil Swan

by All_the_damned_vampires



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood and Gore, Bruises, Duct Tape, Fantasizing, Kidnapping, M/M, Object Insertion, Serial Killer Jensen, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 10:29:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10462842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/All_the_damned_vampires/pseuds/All_the_damned_vampires
Summary: Jensen stumbles onto someone else's leftovers.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Dark!fic with no redeeming qualities. Y'all know me by now.

Jensen stumbles onto someone else's leftovers.

It's early evening, purple twilight peeking through the broken and grimy warehouse windows, and Jensen is annoyed. He keeps his sanctuary just so, a place for everything and everything in its place, and having to stand mouse-silent in the shadows and watch strangers ham-handling his things had been nearly too much to bear.

They're gone now, those interlopers, the sound of their too loud, too coarse voices trailing off, slam of a van door and squeal of tires. No doubt they've left Jensen's place in disarray. From his spot behind the abandoned employee lockers, Jensen wasn't able to see much of what they were doing, only that they were using his tools. Shouts of dog-fight vicious glee and the grunts and muffled screams of whoever they were working over.

And a mess left for Jensen to clean up, no doubt.

Jensen steps out into the open finally, judging it safe enough. One pale bulb directs harsh light down onto the center of the warehouse floor. _His spotlight._

Now it just draws attention to the violation of his private haven.

He'll leave the body, take his tools. The warehouse isn't his anymore. His church, his sanctum, defiled. Time to find a new playground.

There's the expected spatters of blood and sweat on the floor, thought less that Jensen would expect. Jensen's tool box is knocked on its side, usual pristine items scattering distastefully over the filthy floor. The body of a tall man is draped over the delightful metal desk Jensen will hate having to give up. He spent no small amount of time bolting it to the floor, an immovable centerpiece for one of Jensen's shivering lovelies to be tied to. The men trespassing in Jensen's domain didn't even seem to notice the cunning little hooks and latches Jensen has welded to its surfaces. No, they've strapped their victim down crudely with duct tape.

The spread-eagled body shivers and Jensen realizes the man isn't dead at all. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and squints at the leavings on his table.

The man is young, dressed in the tattered remains of a business suit, shirt shoved up his back and pants shoved down around his ankles, revealing smooth, sweaty skin. He's got his wrists taped to the desk and his long legs spread wide and taped down as well. More silver strapped around his head and over his eyes and trapped in his mess of brown hair. More silver tape digging into the sides of the man's distorted, gasping mouth. Jensen winces a bit in spite of himself.

Stepping closer, Jensen takes in the little tableau that has been set up on the table. There's an old landline phone in funky avocado green just within reach of the man's taped hand. A few hours of work and the man probably could work a few fingers free and dial 911. Tidy enough. It's not art on Jensen's level, but he can appreciate the little details.

The man isn't struggling in his bonds, though, trying to get free. He lies still, only the fast rising of his chest and the shivering of the muscles in his lean thighs any indication he's still alive.

His face is turned cheek down on the desk and Jensen raises a brow as even through the tape the attractive features have a certain familiarity. Where has he seen this man before?

Ah, yes. The news. Bank robbery downtown. And this is the face flashed all over the TV, Jared Padalecki, the doe-eyed bank teller taken hostage in the heist.

 _Jared_. Pretty name, pretty face. Jensen had earlier watched on the screen at home as the robbers had hustled the teller out a side door and into a waiting truck, gun to his temple and a cruel hand fisted in his white dress shirt.

Crude, to Jensen's mind, but effective he supposes. The robbers escaped and their not-so-little piece of leverage is alive and well enough and primed to be rescued.

If he can get to the phone.

Almost absently, Jensen picks it up and moves it to the floor, out of Jared's reach.

At the slight clack of plastic Jared stills. Jensen is expecting cries for help, renewed struggles, but despite a slight tensing, Jared makes no sound. He's been broken to that point, Jensen supposes, where the prey gives up and resigns itself to its fate. Dull acceptance and limp surrender. It usually takes a deliciously long time for Jensen to get his lovelies to that point.

Jared's already there.

Circling thoughtfully, Jensen palms his cock in his pants and considers the shivering form before him. Not that cold in the warehouse. Jared must be hovering on the edge of shock. It's arousing, and Jensen's surprised to find himself hard with such little effort. No sting to his muscles as he works and works and works to break down his chosen victim, to take them to that place of exalted despair. Jared isn't his, but he's in that luscious state, and he's here, and Jensen can see the appeal, see how if Jared had been the one, his selected lovely, he might have plucked him off the street and brought him here himself.

The violation of his sanctum and his tools fades into the background.

He's been left a present.

Jensen reaches out and touches Jared's head. Hair feather soft as it looks and Jensen pets for a long moment before gripping the hair, lifting Jared's head, and slamming it back down on the desk.

Soft groan over the thud of flesh against metal, rumbling harsh from behind the gag. Jensen trails a finger across that spit-slicked mouth, pulled pretty-ugly at the corners by the tightness of the duct tape. Jared shivers harder, but doesn't shift away. He's broken open, ready for anything Jensen wants to do to him.

Jensen runs his fingers over the tape covering Jared's eyes--brown, he remembers from the news cast, or maybe they were blue---and down around the curl of an ear, the shuddering nape of the neck. There's less blood than Jensen's used to, just a bit around the nose and crusted along one sensitive ear. He moves around to draw a hand proprietarily along the long line of Jared's spine, rubbing the sweat-soaked fabric of Jared's crumpled suit jacket.

The damage is more apparent from the back and Jensen smiles as he takes in the robber's handiwork. Along the lower back bruises are rising in shades of blue and purple, include a large one blooming threateningly above a kidney. Jensen blinks, fascinated. He doesn't go for blunt trauma, preferring to cut smiling slices in flesh, red following his knife like a shiny ribbon, pretty patterns rising on flesh.

The bruises are pretty in their own way.

Jensen presses down on one of the bigger ones, shoving slow and hard with one thumb. Below him, Jared writhes weakly. A wheezy sound erupts from between his lips, like a bagpipe dropped to the ground, and Jensen chuckles at the pathetic sound. A scream. A whispery scream from a throat long ruined by shrieking. He finds a clear spot of rosy flesh and presses hard to make his own bruise. Leave his own mark. More whispery gasps from Jared's throat.

There's more damage below, and Jensen sucks in a breath, cock throbbing so hard he fears he might pass out. A thin trail of glossy blood is dripping down Jared's inner thigh and spattering on the cement floor. His rim is open, swollen-gaping, and the gore smeared handle of a screwdriver lying near Jared's ankle tells the tale of men more motivated by power and cruelty than lust.

Jensen reaches out, probes with a delicate finger. The flesh is wet and hot and open, and his finger comes back slicked with blood only. At his touch, Jared whisper-whimpers, but doesn't shift away.

Resigned. Broken.

Beautiful.

Jensen can't help himself.

He unzips and spits on his hand, working wetness down his length. It's been a while since he took someone this way. Usually he prefers to cut a red slit in the belly, carve out his own hole for use. Exhilarating, the rush of warm blood over his cock and the dull horror in the eyes of his victim, watching Jensen's cock slide into their guts.

It's unfortunate not to look Jared in the eyes for this, but there's plenty of blood for Jensen's taste as he eases his cock inside his prey's torn hole. It's fever-hot and Jensen smiles as he watches his cock disappear and reappear, slicked with red.

He rocks his hips for a long time, enjoying the feeling. Jared whimpers softly below him, a soothing constant sound, rising slightly in wheezy pitch when Jensen digs his fingers into the bruises. Like playing an instrument. Jensen lets his fingers dance for the longest time.

Had it ever been so good? Jensen nearly sobs with pleasure as he rolls their flesh together.

Even so, it's over too soon.

After he comes, Jensen topples down to let his cheek rest between Jared's shoulder blades. He slows his breath, until their in sync, chests rising together. It's the first time Jensen's ever ended it with the body beneath him still breathing.

It's a new kind of art.

With regret, Jensen pulls away. Tucks his gore-smeared cock away like a bloody trophy, he'll clean up reluctantly at home later.

If possible, Jared presents an even prettier picture now, pried open, dripping red and white. Jensen licks his lips. He wants to eat the man alive.

Jensen taps a finger against a lip, considering. Here's where he'd wrap the body in a tarp for disposal, clean his tools, wipe down the desk to a dented, rusty gleam. But Jared isn't dead. Not yet. Jared can still hear his low breaths, and places a hand on his prey's back just to keep that connection.

What if.

What if it didn't have to be over?

Jensen closes his eyes, imagining. He wants to see Jared's eyes, the fear, the horror. He wants to know their color. He wants every moment he missed, the stalking, the takedown, the working over of his victim. He wants to hear Jared's screams.

If he was careful, if he did it different, how many times could he have Jared like this?

Jensen gathers up his tools for transport. Places the phone back on the desk, taking the receiver off the hook and dialing the number. Emergency services will arrive soon enough. Jensen's fingerprints and DNA aren't on any file.

With one last fond pat, Jensen walks away from his past and toward his future. Like Lot's wife, he takes one last glance over his shoulder.

Jared. Padalecki. Easy enough to find him again.

Until the next time. Jensen kisses his fingers and walks away.


End file.
